


Childproofed

by NomdePlume



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Companionable Snark, Gen, Humor, Illnesses, John is a smug bastard, Man colds, Sherlock is a child, seriously though what's the deal with medicine packaging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NomdePlume/pseuds/NomdePlume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obligatory Sherlock-is-sick and John-is-amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Childproofed

He can hear it.  John bites his lip to pre-empt a smile.

In the bathroom, down the hall, he can hear the repetitive, agitated pattering of little tablets bouncing angrily against the inside of their plastic bottle.  Then silence.   Then a renewed fervour of rattles.  Followed by a flurry of swears.

John inhales and tells himself he’s a grown up.  He rustles his paper, ignoring the scene his mind’s eye has conjured quite clearly.

Silence once more descends upon the flat.  That is, until Sherlock decides to hurl the abused bottle against a wall, which can then be heard rolling across the tile floor with an accompanying snarl of rage.

John schools his expression, because he knows what comes next, and he focuses intently on the article outlining the latest reconstruction plans for the Oval.  Apparently, the ground-breaking ceremony is in three days.  Fascinating.

The tablets clatter once more as the bottle is picked up, and then the sound of thumping footsteps grows louder until there is a pair of pyjama bottoms surrounded by swirling dressing gown in his periphery, and the bottle is thrust before his face.

John looks at it like he has a choice.  He lays his paper down.  Calmly takes the container.  He looks up at Sherlock.  His cheeks are red, his eyes narrowed.  He may be a bit sweaty.  His face is turned away and he crosses his arms.  That’s the only request of assistance John will get.

Very calmly, very smugly even, John’s palm presses down on the bottle cap and twists.  The white plastic easily loosens and then separates.  Simple as pie.  John offers the now-open bottle of paracetamol to Sherlock.

“Not a word,” Sherlock growls, dumping three or four out into his pale, quivering hand.

John smiles but is respectfully silent.  In his mind, however, there are at least seven scathing ripostes lined up and ready to see action.

“John.  I can hear you.”

John’s brows rise in protest, but still he says nothing.

Sherlock glares at the open bottle in John’s hand, and grabs _John’s_ half-full glass of water.  Lazy bastard. 

“What if I had arthritis?” he shouts, unprompted.  “What do people who have serious tremors do?  This is irresponsible marketing!”

John inhales, opens his lips to reply—

“No, John!  I said not a word!”

John closes his mouth.  Sherlock throws his head back and swallows the pills in one go.  He drops the water glass onto the side table, sloshing the remaining liquid over the rim, heedless of the documents beneath.  John ignores this, and continues smiling placidly up at Sherlock.

His friend’s bare foot taps relentlessly and he reaches for the bottle and cap, scowls, and thinks better of it.

A bubble of laughter catches in John’s throat which is quickly silenced by the look of absolute loathing Sherlock throws at him.  John twists the cap back on for him and holds it up.  Sherlock snatches it from his hand and if looks could melt plastic they’d be out another new bottle of paracetamol.  In fact, he’s fairly certain that might have been what happened to their last new bottle.  Only not so much melted because of Sherlock’s eyes as opposed to Sherlock’s blow torch.  Which John has repeatedly reminded him is not a toy.

“I’ve just got this _blinding_ headache…” Sherlock trails off, staring at the floor, looking very much like one of the children the pills are meant to be kept from.

John nods, sympathetic.

Sherlock sneers at him again.  “Oh, what?  Nothing.  Shut up.”  He spins on his heel and pounds back towards the loo, tablets cheerfully rattling away.

John inhales.  “It’s just, the _symbolism_ here,” he finally says.

“WHAT DID I SAY?”

John throws his own head back and howls with laughter.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock and all recognizable belong to the ACD estate, BBC, and Mofftiss. /sneeze


End file.
